This Day

You know. You know this day. This day was that day. The day when the first things you hear are your soggy five-year-old's reassuring words, "Mom, I didn't pee my bed. My shorts just got wet. And my sheets are wet. And do I have any clean underwear?" and your three-year-old pipes in with, "Mom, whenever you feed fish and dogs you need to wash your hands. Mom, let's go feed the fish and dog. Actually, you just feed them. I want a chocolate granola bar." So you stagger out of bed, too tired to do anything but follow orders from these small alien leaders who have apparently sucked the brains right from your head, and begin digging in the dryer, looking for the requested breakfast food, only to realize that on a good day, only clothes are stored in there, and that's the real reason you're in the laundry room in the first place, because Thing 1 is still standing naked requesting your assistance for clothing. You find clothes (hopefully they're his) and continue your zombie march to the kitchen to find sustenance for Thing 2.
Thing 3 is now awake and needing a shower because she seems to have the remnants of last night's Cheetos still clinging to her skin and one half her hair is cemented to her face with, well, you're probably better off not knowing. So you begin preparing her for a cleansing, but this is difficult because she's anxious and wiggling and the problem of remembering which direction to pull her pants to get them off her body seems insurmountable.
Finally she's in the shower, Number 1's out the door, and you remember that Number 2 needs a small picture printed for school. This shouldn't take more than a few minutes, right?, so you get your exercise clothes on thinking that we'll whip this assignment out and get a workout in before you can say Bob's your uncle and you have to take anyone else to school. You sit down at the computer, choose the picture, click print and ... no ink. Awesome. Let's change the cartridge. Only, how do I go about this on this newfangled contraption? Watch the informational video where the top of the printer magically lifts itself off and the cartridges slip happily into view and then fairies fly out sprinkling pizza to all the happy children. Ok. Step 1: figure out how to take the top off. Grunting and pulling and squeezing results in half the printer being lifted up at a horrifying angle while the rest remains steadfastly in place. Sephonnie, you have a college degree for crying out loud. How hard can this be? Finally after praying and frantically pushing into every nook and cranny, gold is struck and the top lifts away and the cartridges do, in fact, slide happily into view. Replace the one that seems bad. Print pictures. Shots of you and your beautiful daughter come out green and streaked. Ok, replace the rest of the cartridges. Print pictures again. 45 minutes and $45 in ink and photo paper later, you have two tiny pictures to show for your hard work and now 0% of the children remaining in the house are dressed and there is no time for a workout and in fact -aaahhh!!!- the clock says there's no time for anything.
Rush to school. A few minutes later, it's time to pick up Thing 1 and a friend. You do so and decide to run an errand on the way home, so you take three tornadoes into poor, unsuspecting Big 5 to purchase a couple things for your yet-uncompleted workout and the guy says, "Hey, you were in here last week, right?" I can't possibly imagine why we would have made an impression, as you're wrestling Number 3 who is riding backwards on your shoulders like a confused sack of potatoes and Number 1 & Company are darting around the store, hollering excitedly about their favorites from the weapons counter.
After a brief respite that comes in the form of death-threat-enforced naps and lunchtime, you're all getting packed up for a Welcome to Kindergarten night at the elementary school. Cute, right? Except that poor Josh is still at work and won't be home for hours so the whole crew is coming with you and Kid Uno to learn about kindergarten. You walk into the school, juggling three bundles of joy who begin sprinting around the school's cafeteria like this is the first time they've ever been let out of the cage and the poor teachers try to squelch the immediate look in their eyes, "Um, lady, I think you're in the wrong place. The clown college is down the street," and instead they earn an Academy Award for saying, "Welcome to the Wolf Pack!" like they're genuinely glad we're there.
The teachers are awesome and keep all three kiddos entertained for an hour and a half (except for the few moments when Number 2 feels left out and begins crying loudly, "I wanna go to kindergarten, too!!") and then you reach home to put the kids in front of a couple episodes of Horseland and hope that the clients coming for their workouts any minute now aren't offended by the enormous pillow fort that is still inhabiting the front room.
And then the small ones are in bed, and you collapse on the couch with a new episode of Psych and the banana butterscotch blondies you've been waiting to dig in to, and hope that you are revived enough to try it all again tomorrow.
This day. You know this day. When you love your kids and work this hard, there's bound to be this day. I read a quote that seems very applicable. Here is my own little interpretation: "Behind every great kid is a mom who's pretty sure she's screwing it up. And behind every mom who's pretty sure she's screwing it up, is a Sam's Club-sized bag of chocolate chips that give her the courage to try another day anyway."

Exercise

I have no idea how it has taken me so long to cover this jewel in the crown of beloved motherhood experiences. I know, you're probably already giggling (or crying - sorry) at recounting all your own Crazy Town experiences while you try to dance away the unpleasantly redistributed materials left over from giving birth.  Josh and I have recently re-stepped up our workout game; we have started an intense at-home fitness regimen with crazy 40 minute videos to follow. As you know, completing this at top notch is not easy with at least two out of the three ragamuffins coaching me on to success. The guy on the video shouts instructions as to how to properly perform each exercise: "Move to where you're uncomfortable!" Well, Mr. Beachbody, while I'm muddling through these 74,000 pushups, I've got one poopy-diapered child trying to sit on my face while the other attempts to steamroll her sister with an enormous stability ball. I may not be great at most of the stuff in this workout, but I'm pretty sure I've got the market cornered on uncomfortable.
From time to time, I will mix things up and teach workouts at my church for fellow sailors on the Moms Who Are Trying to Figure Out How to Get Anything Besides Poop Done ship. We do this in the morning, which means our children are with us, which means this is ever an exciting event. There are rare beautiful days where I go teach these classes and everything is smooth and wonderful and we are all sweaty and happy and then we ride our unicorns home. More often than not, however, things go as they did today. We swing into the parking lot at least 10 minutes late, because digging through the clean but perpetually unfolded laundry basket to find something half decent for the offspring to wear and then tossing them granola-bar-faced and raggedy-headed into the car with hopefully a right and a left shoe of any sort on their feet, always takes longer than I imagine. I get the kids out of the car and let them run around on the sidewalk while I gather my belongings. They really like this because, of course, there are sprinklers running, sprinkling my wrinkly children with happy drops. I am beginning to get concerned at this point, because I cannot find the cord to my speaker system, which was right in the car only a few hours earlier. The other class participants are ever patient and kind (bless them) and come out to help herd my orphans into the building. Now I am really sort of worried, because underneath the crunchy cookies, old water bottles, and thirty five jackets that seem to be our car's emergency storage, there is absolutely no sign of this wretched cord. I cannot find it. It is just nowhere.
I enter the church to break the bad news and the other ladies come to the rescue, jerry-rigging a system that is at least passable, so we can still get our now-25-minutes-late workout in. We begin and my kids unleash an impressive showing of their truly terrible Elliss power. JJ is riding on a cute little push-along car. Felicity decides to help her and smashes her sister into a tower of stacking chairs. I help up JJ, reprimand Felicity and go back to it. Felicity then knocks JJ completely off the car, face-splatting the poor one-year old onto the gym floor. Still trying to properly maintain the Zumba sexy and take care of all this, we relegate the car to the stage, where hopefully no one can reach it. Felicity (who was really on a roll) climbs on the stage and makes a solid attempt at driving that car right off the edge. If it wasn't for some fleet-footed ladies at the class today who caught her on her way down, she would have done the same face-splat her sister had barely completed. Oh my heck.
So the workout goes on, with the kids emptying out my entire purse off the stage and on to the floor, running the halls, and attempting to start a basketball game in the middle of our dance area. JJ is crying, runny-nosed, and so tired. She's trying to run underneath my legs like some terrible version of London Bridge. I leaped gracefully over her a time or two, but the morning caught up to me and as I tried to the next time, I nearly scalped her with the inside of my leg. She didn't like that very much, so I spent the entire cool down song with her curled in my arms. Cute, right?
They're not always full-on naughty. Sometimes they're just them. Both girls love to come dance in the exact spot on the floor that I am dancing. JJ, without fail, will hijack the step I am using and begin tap dancing on it. She doesn't want another one, immediately to the side; only mine will do. Felicity comes out to sing the song's words and do the arm movements. Judsen will run up from time to time to ask if he can have fruit snacks or if we can listen to his favorite rock star song five more times in a row. Two of JJ's great firsts came while trying to lead these poor, wonderful ladies in a workout. The first time she ever pulled herself to standing was on a step that I was currently using to teach a variation of hamstring curls. The first time she ever walked was chasing a push-toy around that church gym and through my legs while I attempted to execute a shuffle mamba pivot.
Oy. At home, they sit on Josh as he does pushups, turning his exercise session into a bull-riding rodeo. They perch on his chest, feet, and face (remember, there are three of them) as he does abdominal work. JJ will just randomly lay down flat right under his feet, increasing the plyometric demand of any workout because he has to watch for her and then jump at the exact right moment to avoid trampling his impish, giggling daughter.
I call this workout philosophy Body by Baby. Your body has babies and then its most consistent form of exercise is babies. And you end up with a few extra lumps and curves but also happy kids and the opportunity to decide that giving up your six-pack for a few years is probably worth it.

Happy Mother's Day

My kids love to party. Very often they'll come streaking into the kitchen and jitter excitedly. "Mom! Come look what we made for you! It's a party!" I'll trepidatiously enter the living room to discover an enormous nest carefully designed from pillows, comforters, stuffed animals, toy trains, and crumbs from an indistinguishable origin. The kids will watch my face expectantly and as I reveal true joy (they believe from their engineering genius, more accurately from the fact that the nest doesn't also include Silly Putty, blood, or green crayon smeared on anything) they jump up and down and shout happily and ask me to turn on music so they can be properly enthused. A wild rumpus ensues, we end up making an unexpected dessert, you know...
So when I came home from an appointment to find the kids hard at work on what they told me was my Mother's Day surprise party, I wasn't too shocked. I was touched by their thoughtfulness and their creativity in putting the lessons they've seen on Curious George to real life. Plus, the fact that this Mother's Day celebration was happening only two days after New Years' Eve was of no concern. I mentioned it to Judsen and he said, "No, Mom. We're just pretending it's Mother's Day. We're just practicing."
I watched them at the craft table, cutting newspaper, mixing water, glue, and blue paint into one of my new Tupperware bowls (which they found after opening every single door, drawer, and cupboard in the kitchen. Yes, of course, they left all the doors ajar and in perfect head-knocking position. Why not?), and then placing it carefully over an old box full of ancient Halloween candy. While they completed their task, Judsen issued instructions to me. "Mom, could you make us some coconut cake and dinner and treats and hot chocolate for your party? You're going to be so surprised!" Yes, it was starting to feel like Mother's Day already.
When they were finished, they were eager to whack apart the soggy cardboard immediately, but we encouraged them to be patient. In search of other activities, they wandered into the living room where Felicity had been apparently storing her in-case-of-emergency toy. There, sitting on the couch, in all its splendor was a lidless, used pregnancy test. I was horrified. "Felicity! Why is that there? That is not a toy! That is a stick for mommies to pee on!" She scurried to throw it away, sweetly apologizing, which made me feel a little sorry about my abrupt reaction to her, until I realized the reason the test had been lidless was because she was chewing on the cap! Oh brother.
I ran to the bathroom for an escape, but the kids, apparently finding no joy in the living room, decided to come with me to see if I had any better options. So I'm using the throne and JJ starts to sort through the trash potpourri. Felicity stands on the ledge of the tub, all wrapped up in the shower curtain, singing and pretending to be Mildew Batman, I guess. In an effort to commit fully to her character, she lifts her legs and twirls around, again supported by the shower curtain, until the effort brings the bar, curtain, and child crashing to the ground. She, understandably, begins freaking out and looking for comfort, so I hold her on my lap. Glad this isn't awkward. I hurry and get finished and rush to get some ice for Felicity's bruised face, and JJ, not to be forgotten, comes after us, leading the roll of toilet paper behind her and into the hall like she's the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
Dinner seems like a good idea at this point, so I quickly make enchiladas. It is while my hands and forearms are smothered in chicken shards and red sauce that JJ comes sauntering in, doing a striptease and showing us her new skill of removing her own diaper. Here we recall that she is only 12 months and a couple seconds old; she should not have mastered sticky tape yet. So my little nudist wanders around the kitchen to cheers and giggles from her brother and sister while I scream for Josh (who cannot come because he has locked himself away trying to complete an important business phone call) and try to clean my hands off enough to contain her.
We then eat, which works out pretty well for most of us, but Judsen begins crying inconsolably at the terror of consuming tortillas and cheese. Oh boy. Happy Mother's Day, indeed. I help him calm down (for which he sweetly tells me, "Mom, thanks for helping me feel happy." Melted my heart.), finish his dinner, and we all decide that bed would be the best destination. We get the kids in their pajamas and teeth-brushing ensues, only Felicity picks up her turn for tears when Josh will not let her use her toothbrush to remove the hairspray I found crusted in her ear.
I had hoped that after a night of rest, all might calm down some, (I can't say return to normal; we've met often enough for you to know what "normal" at my house is.) but they all popped their heads off their pillows ready to bring on Day 2 of the Mother's celebration. Judsen insists that we smash the pinata before breakfast because "on Curious George, Marco's mom hits the pinata and then they eat". This doesn't quite work out, because his sisters insist on being fed first. As I'm trying to prepare the meal, we discover Felicity's bar stool is missing and the kids go on a search for it. Felicity finds it in the office, holding up part of the audience Judsen had gathered for the pinata-smashing. Sitting in a ragged circle are a stuffed bear, Dora's backpack, some dirty towels, and in the place of honor on Felicity's stool is a Halloween pumpkin with an upturned bucket for a hat. Judsen gets very offended that we would try to remove the stool or its guest. "Mom, we can't move it. All the water will spill out." "It's full of water??" He looks at me like why can't I get a clue, of course we fill plastic pumpkins with water before we set them in the middle of the office in order to witness a  practice Mother's Day pinata party, held on, of all days, a snowy day in January.
Holy moly. So, Pumpkin gets cleaned out and we decide it would be best to get on with the pinata event before anything else happens. The kids cheer when I break open the box (held up with duct tape on a plastic pole) with a few swings and Judsen declares it was so fun and he loves me and Happy Mother's Day. I sit the kids down to eat finally, Felicity promptly dumps all her hot chocolate out on the counter then gives me puppy dog eyes, "Sorry, Mommy, " so I can't even be frustrated with her, and that's where I left them so I could come write this. And now as I look behind me, all three have followed me in here and are demolishing a block of Styrofoam with butter knives and their bare hands. JJ is sitting on an old, half-chewed Baby Ruth and all three desperately need a shower. So I guess I better go. There are many more adventures and Mother's Day parties awaiting. The kids are delirious with happiness that we get to do all this again in just four short months. And what the heck. I'm happy, too.
PS I'm editing this post while the kids are in the shower. I'm nearby so I can check on them, but JJ still snuck out to stand behind me naked, grinning while she poops on the floor. I sprint over to pick it up, asking her why the poop nugget. Judsen immediately picks up on this new, hilarious phrase and is now walking around the house singing, "Poop nugget! Poop bugget! Poop nugget! Poop lugget!" And now we're discussing ninjas and their wardrobe choices in depth while the girls sit on the carpet, eating an entire loaf of bread by the handful. Awesome. Happy Mother's Day.

Moms Are Smart

I sat down to write this entry as an early Christmas gift and ego boost to myself. A recent exchange with Judsen left me baffled and speechless, so I wanted to battle back. We were discussing something and he asked me a question I didn't know the answer to. He said fervently that Daddy did know the answer and I agreed, "Yes, Daddy's smart." Judsen then shook his head sadly and moaned, "Mom, I wish you were smart." At that moment I couldn't even combat his words. It was just as I was putting the kids to bed and the best response I could come up with was, "Lrghksj...well, you're a cheese face!" Nice.
But then I started thinking - moms can do stuff. Cool stuff, like control the future. Like we can make our babies poop on demand and in inhuman proportions by not bringing a diaper out in public. And we can mind-control our kids into finding new heroes to look up to, simply by scheduling family pictures the next day. As soon as you hang up that phone, they will instantaneously become fascinated with the likes of Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield, attempting to beat each other into orange pulp. And if we really want to be cruel and give them nightmares, we just fix green beans for dinner and they will start screaming and be permanently scarred by the horror.
So with that in mind, I set out to write about all the other great things moms can do and how awesome they are. Except then I had the day I had, which proved once and for all that Judsen was right.
We planned a little Christmas weekend getaway, so I spend much of the morning packing. I used my mom smarts to forget a stroller, arm floaties, baby food, and other traveling necessities. We made it to the hotel anyway and attempted to all have a nap.
This worked pretty well, except for JJ who had slept for 20 whole minutes in the car and had deemed this nap sufficient for the duration of her life. So as we laid her down, she screamed the being-drawn-and-quartered scream. It didn't take long for my mom smarts to pick up on the fact that this was going to be a hindrance to anyone else in the family getting to sleep, so me and my brain decided it would be a good idea to use this time to travel to the local Walmart and pick up some of the supplies we forgot, in particular the stroller, since we intended on doing a lot of walking over the next few days.
JJ and I get to Walmart, locate the stroller section, find it empty, track down an employee, ask her if there are any strollers, she asks someone else who has to go look in the back, which is apparently located somewhere in Antarctica, and over 20 minutes later they both come back to tell me there are none. Oh boy. Okay. They suggest another store in town and I set out. Over the next two hours, I stop at four more stores, get lost twice (since my GPS is evidently on his honeymoon in Eurasia and forgot to appropriately set his out-of-office reply), and yelled at once as I'm trying to turn around. By the third stop I was so tired and frustrated and lacking in smarts that I literally had people cowering in fear from me. I hauled the now sleeping JJ (imagine that, she was tired) into the store, shuffling like Quasimodo and with a crazed expression on my face and asked if they had any strollers. The girl's eyes got wide, and no joking, I saw her skin go white. She stood partially hidden behind a cabinet door and said, "No. I'm sorry. We don't. I'm sorry. If we did, I would tell you right away. I'm so sorry." I read the unspoken, "Please don't eat me, " in her face and let the poor thing live.
When I got back to the hotel room after all that, sans stroller, I flung my few meager bags on the bed and sat on the chair in the shower and cried. (They had checked us into the handicapped-friendly room, apparently on a premonition that at least one of us would not be functioning at our full capacity during our stay.)
When I collected myself and the few smarts left that hadn't gone down the drain with my tears, we set out on a walk to see the sights and get dinner. This went alright. We had burgers at a popular local place, and being children of the desert who instinctively take every chance to cool off even when it's 39 degrees outside, got chocolate shakes to accompany us on the walk back home. Except that my family, evidently still possessing more computing power than me, realized it would be ridiculous to walk outside in mid-December carrying a giant ice cream and finished theirs in the store. I, however, clung, with icy fingers, to mine like a lifeline, running the freezing streets and slurping it down.
We got back and decided it would be a smart idea to take the kids swimming. They love swimming. As we got into the pool, they all decided to celebrate by playing one of their favorite games, Leech. I don't know if you've heard of it, but my kids love it. The rules go like this, "Let's all squeal and grab onto Mommy and pull down the front of her swimsuit because she doesn't have a free hand to hold all of us at the same time, and the first one to see her brains oozing out of her ears in retreat wins." I tried to hold my wits about me, but they were rapidly disintegrating and the fifteenth time someone screamed, "Mommy! Hold me!" I lost it. I didn't know what to do. How do I manage kids in the water? Can kids even get in the water, or does water make them melt? Wait, is that the Wicked Witch of the West? What does make kids melt? Or do they more evaporate? What am I talking about? Hello, Brain? Is anyone in there?
Needless to say, we immediately got out of the pool and put everyone in bed. And now I am here, typing this post and feeling more sympathy than ever for poor Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. It's awful to be without a brain.
But perhaps I can overnight a letter requesting one to Santa. Maybe he'll come across a used one at a rummage sale and leave it in my stocking Christmas morning. I hope so. Regardless, though, Happy Holidays to you and yours!

Carnivals or "How to Cement Your Decision to Become a Hermit"

   I've been quite tired lately. Right, I know. As discussed in previous posts, I understand that this is part of my job description. But the kids have been sick recently and JJ is getting in four teeth, so not lots of sleeping has been going on, thus resulting in higher-than-normal fatigue. This is the kind of fatigue that makes you laugh hysterically as you watch Curious George with your babies, because that darn silly monkey tried to put ice cream in his hat and it melted all over his head and sends you into fits of giggles as you read "The Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog" because that pigeon sure does love a good hot dog. But, then again, who doesn't?
   Because of this tiredness, we have not been doing lots of exciting things as a family and we finally decided we needed to get out of this funk by doing something fun. So, we took a family trip to a very popular local hot air balloon festival. We were all anticipating it greatly; it's a well-renowned event, famous for its breathtaking views of balloons both up close and in the sky.
  The evening started out well. We got on the borrowed school bus to be transported to the fairgrounds and the kids were in straight-backed, uncomfortable heaven. They LOVED being on the bus and experiencing the scary thrill of not having to wear a seat belt and of being able to look out the window at the passing world, high above all the other cars. Josh and I reveled in their delight and enjoyed the ride as well.
  We arrived at the fiesta at about 6:00 pm, 15 minutes after the "glow" event was scheduled. This is supposed to be incredible, with hundreds of balloons blasting their flames and glowing all at the same time. As we walked around the field, we noticed all the balloons were just being inflated and we were very happy not to have missed the event. So we strolled, becoming further and further intoxicated by the sound of roaring gas flames, the smell of giant fried turkey legs, and the sight of another spectacular New Mexico sunset. Like most intoxications, it was a happy delirium that temporarily clouded out the common sense of experience - you've done something like this before and woke up with a headache the next morning, whether from your drink or from eating too many soggy funnel cakes and melting ice cream cones, having blown your life's inheritance on wildly overpriced make-you-wanna-puke rides and ridiculously expensive toys that disintegrate the moment you walk away from the booth.
  But we ignored all this and enjoyed the experience. We took some pictures, looked at balloons, talked to some of the captains, and waited for everything to light up. Finally at around 6:30, the PA man announced the glow would now take place. Everyone held their breath as we counted down. 10..9....3..2..1! Pause. Pause. One little balloon lit up proudly for a moment and then flickered out, as if he was embarrassed. The PA guy cleared his throat and said, "Okay. Let's try that again." Again, the collective breath was held as we all hoped to be amazed. 3...2...1! Out of hundreds of balloons, the same brave soul and a couple of his friends lit up for a second, but other than that, nothing. This time, Mr. PA sounded embarrassed. "Um, they can't hear they PA system too well out in the middle of the field, so we'll give it a few minutes and try again."
  Now, I'm no expert, but it seems to me that on opening night of a huge event like this, you could think of something better than, "I guess they can't hear us." How about a group text message? Smoke signals? Morse code using flash lights? Carrier pigeons or messenger monkeys?
  After a third failed attempt at the glow, all the pilots started letting the air out of their balloons and laying them flat on the ground. At this point it is 7:00 and not only have we missed the lighting-up, but we full-on skipped the Great Balloon Race launch. We were under the impression we would see hundreds of balloons lift into the air, in a celebration of life and humanity. Instead, the balloons were as limp and dead as the $10 lightsabers we suckered on for Judsen and Felicity at a nearby stand - dissolved in the hands of five year old Yoda and three year old Darth Vader mere moments after purchasing them.
   Well, at least there were still the fireworks, the grand finale of the whole evening. Since the fireworks were supposed to start at 8:00, I held our spot on the grass with JJ while Josh took the older two to ride some rides. We just had enough time for me to try to airplane some applesauce into JJ's mouth, when the fireworks show began, 25 minutes early. Josh and the kids came running back to watch. The fireworks were nice, I suppose, but after a few minutes, Judsen and Felicity tired of them and preferred to play with lightsaber scraps than see any more.
  About this time, the dreamy mist wore off and I realized the same thing I always realize after attending a carnival-like affair, THIS is why I swore off these things last time. No more! No more of these ever! We will move to Walden pond, change our last name to Thoreau, and spend our time enjoying the beauties of nature and NOT spending $24 so we can get into the park and give up more hard-earned cash on things we don't want, need or really even like.
   At 8:02 the night was over and we loaded back on to the buses to go home. We had dinner and went to our room where, in an effort to crown the evening in glory, Judsen promptly threw up his evening meal. We cleaned it up, put him back to bed, and as I used the bathroom before going to sleep myself, I realized we had missed some of the vomit. Because I was now sitting in it. Lovely. A fitting throne for the anti-carnival queen I have become. Now we are definitely moving to Walden pond. This never would have happened if we lived in a cabin in the woods, I just know it.
   As a child, I never understood why my parents wouldn't give us money to go to the fair. We didn't go on the festival rides or buy the food. I didn't get it then, but I do now. And as they read about me unintentionally wallowing in my kid's throw-up after an evening of indulging a childhood whim, I'm sure they're laughing and enjoying the sweet irony.
   It's fine, though, because I'll get my day and it will be a wonderful win-win. Judsen just told me how much fun he had when we went to see the balloons and he got his light sword. I'm so glad, truly I am. We made a precious memory with our sweet children. A memory so good that they won't be able to resist taking their own children to events like this and experiencing the true pocket-clearing, sanity-erasing reality of them. And I'll get to sit back and lick my fingers, dripping with the deliciousness of that moment.

"Tales from the Pot" or "WTMI"

   This post begins on the toilet, the unfortunate setting for many of our stories. If you read on, enjoy. But here is your fair warning that you may receive way too much information ("WTMI").

As all parents know, the toilet is both a wonderful and a terrible place. It is wonderful as you watch your child finally conquer their bodily functions and put them in the appropriate place, because up until now they have been desperately determined to have a bowel movement anywhere other than the bathroom due to an apparent wild fear of toilet snakes. It is wonderful to watch your child grow and progress and be proud of themselves. And terrible...I don't think I need to go into graphic details about terrible.

   Before you have kids, no one really warns you that your own bathroom time will suddenly become a family affair. On the cute little baby shower advice cards, no one writes, "Stock up on picture books for your toilet magazine rack, because this is the place where your children will suddenly and passionately need you to teach them to read." So, if you are reading this and you have yet to procreate, I am doing you a favor and telling you this now. Get comfortable with your body, whatever it looks like, because whenever nature calls and your children are around, you will feel like the Super Bowl half time show. When you are in a public restroom and your daughter shouts, "Wow, Mom! You have a big bum! Are you doing a big poop?" you will be able to exit the stall, wash your hands like a decent human being, and leave the bathroom with your head held high.

   At home, my kids (like most, I think) have decided that Mommy's toilet time is a good time to come ask me things, often revolving around food. Judsen bursts through the door the other day. "Hi, Mom! What are you doing?" "Um, using the bathroom, honey." "Oh. Okay. Can I have this candy?" "Can it wait until I'm off the toilet?" He leaves for a second and then returns. "Will you open this, Mom?" "Jud! Please wait until I"m done!" Finally he comes back for a third time. "Mom, please open this and don't drop it in the toilet." I give in, but the impish prankster in me can't help but seize the opportunity for revenge. As I pull open the wrapper, I drop the candy through my pant legs to the floor, but from where he's standing, it looks as if I've done exactly what he reminded me not to do and my horrified face sends him into angry moaning. "No, Mom!!" I let him writhe for a minute, then pick up the candy, unsoiled, and hand it back to him. "Here it is, Jud, but don't ask me for food when I'm on the toilet anymore." Apparently it worked, because he hasn't come back when he knows I'm in the bathroom.

  Felicity has no such qualms, however. She stands next to the ever-open bathroom door and plays restaurant. "What kind of pizza do you want, Mom?" Um, the quiet time special. She brings me a concoction of plastic shower toys, empty shampoo bottles and dirty washcloths and presents it with spectacular flair. "It's a chocolate pizza, Mom!" And I eat up, lest her feelings be hurt and she be discouraged from ever cooking again.

   JJ uses her willpower-melting cuteness and just marches on in. And here I'm left with two awful options. One, I slide her out the door with my feet, shut it and listen while she cries and sticks her fingers underneath. Then she waits there until I try to come out but am trapped inside because she's sitting next to the door and my only choice is to use it to, as gently as possible, glide her away, across the floor like a tiny, sad hockey puck. Or two, I hold her on my lap while trying to take care of business because if she's left to her own devices, she'll smack things with the plunger and chew on the empty hemorrhoid cream tube that's been neglected behind the toilet for months. So I put her on my knees, singing the Mexican Hat Dance and To Market, To Market. She adores this and to show her appreciation, tucks her little head on my shoulder and settles in for some quality cuddling. Seriously?? You want to snuggle now?

   The few times I am alone are somewhat like eating an entire chocolate cake. At first you can't believe your good fortune and you scarf down all you can, reading magazines like there's gold at the end and sticking it out until your feet fall asleep. But after about half an hour, you realize everything is silent and you begin to feel fairly sick to your stomach because that means either everyone is dead or all your belongings are so torn up you should begin filing the paperwork for your house to be declared a natural disaster zone.

   I guess we'll just keep using the bathroom anyway, though, in spite of all this, partly because it seems there are few other options and partly because, darn it all, I love my kids regardless of what else I'm trying to accomplish.

Dinner

So, dinner. Occurring regularly since the dawn of time, this most primeval activity happens without forethought or preparation when you are a child. At Mom’s and Dad’s house, the magic dinner fairies wave their wooden spoons and dinner appears, hot and fresh and ready to consume at a beautifully set table.

As a parent trying to replicate this glorious occurrence in your own home, you learn that the dinner fairies are dead, for they cannot survive outside of their natural environment of your parents’ house, and that when you tried to plead and wheedle to get them to come, you have only infuriated the Supreme Dinner Being who will now and forever muddle up your brain as you try to plan a menu. “Ground beef? What am I supposed to do with ground beef?! There’s not a recipe in the world that uses such a ridiculous ingredient!” But you do the best you can to feed your family and keep the illusion alive so that when they move out, your poor unsuspecting children will be greeted with the same dead fairy reality that you were.

In spite of this magical handicap, we were making dinner a few days ago for some friends who have just had a baby. As usually happens under these circumstances, the pressure is on to get the friends’ dinner done and so your own kids have to wait, hungry and pleading as you scream in a flour-coated, stress-filled voice, “No! You can’t eat anything! Darn it all! I’m trying to be nice to other people!” (At least, this ridiculous scenario happens too often in my house. Maybe, hopefully, not in yours.)

Anyway, we got the friends’ dinner done on time, it looked terrific, and the dessert had turned out divinely, so I was very proud of myself as we drove it over to them. Because they’re fairly good friends and we were not staying long, only dropping the food off, I permitted us all to go without shoes on, thinking, “It’s fine. This is just a fun, friendly, casual thing.” We take the food inside and as Josh is driving us home, I put my feet up for a moment to enjoy feeling good.  This forces my pants into view for apparently the first time in a decade, and I realize I have orange jello crusted down one entire leg of my capris and it has somehow dripped onto my skin without me realizing. Oh my. Ok. I probably shouldn’t have gone into their house like that.  As I continue my now-embarrassed search, I realize I have a giant black schmear across the other leg, from who-knows-what and having been there for heaven-knows-how-long.

At this point I’m replaying the conversation with our friends in my head. As I happily announce their delectable dinner and with it, implied confidence that it was prepared in a clean, healthy kitchen, I change their response from, “Wow. This looks delicious. That Sephonnie sure has it all together,” to “Aaahh!! Why aren’t you wearing shoes! And look at your legs! Put the food down and go take a shower, woman!”

We get home and trying to forget about this less-than-impressive debut, I busy myself finishing up our dinner. The kids have decided on spaghetti, so I put the noodles on to boil and tidy up the kitchen while we wait. The timer goes off and I secure the fancy drainer lid to the pot and pour out the cooking water. And then I go to take the lid off. In the mere 13 seconds the lid has been on the pot, it has apparently decided to weld itself to its partner and take up permanent residence there. The lid will not come off. I’m struggling and squeezing and turning and banging the pot against the sink. It will not come off. I run water over it. I get a giant butcher knife out and try to pry it off. It will not budge. At this point I am praying and near hysterical crying. It’s getting late, Josh is gone, and it appears there will be no dinner for anyone. Ever. The kids have caught on to my distress and are alternately weeping helplessly, “What about our dinner??” and rummaging through the drawers for every sharp kitchen object they can find – meat forks, steak knives, can openers – to assist me in this wretched noodle pot battle. In an effort to frighten the lid off, Felicity also gets out two pot lids and begins enthusiastically smashing them together, effectively making road kill out of my last remaining nerves and tolling the death knoll for all happiness everywhere. Just when I’m ready to throw the pot through the window and go get us all Happy Meals, something unhooks and the lid finally slides off. Exhausted, I dump their noodles and sauce in a bowl and settle on Reese’s Peanut Butter footballs for my own evening fare.

Going out to eat is not better for us. I’ve heard we’re not alone in this trial, and I’m not sure if the terrified looks we get from older folks and honeymooning couples as we sit in a nearby booth support or discourage this theory. I was at Denny’s with the three kids while we were out of town recently. While waiting for Judsen’s and Felicity’s food to arrive, I decided to give JJ her cereal. I got out the box, mixed some with her veggies, and began to feed her. Everything is going well until Judsen says, “Uh oh. I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to.” I look over and he has knocked down the box of cereal, spilling its contents everywhere and turning our table surface into a vast desert of oatmeal dunes. I reply calmly that it’s okay, I know it was an accident, although I’m not sure if my calmness stems because I’ve done a good job of accepting the reality of dining out with children and I am handling the situation like a pro, or because my mind has finally snapped and I’m just seconds away from grabbing a handful of sugar packets myself and starting an all-out food fight.

Our server comes over to see how we are and Judsen, to his credit, is very sweet about apologizing for the mess. Server starts to assure us it’s fine, it happens all the time, and he’s not offended about cleaning it up, when he looks down to see what exactly has spilled. I see a look of horror in his eyes as he gasps, “What is that?!” Oh, just baby cereal. He seems to calm down at the easy explanation of the foreign substance and heads off to get a rag. As soon as he steps away, Felicity decides to add to the excitement and slosh her pink lemonade onto the table as well, creating a sloppy, gooey stew of oatmeal flakes and soft drink. Poor Server comes back to find an even larger disaster and then returns a third time with an enormous bucket-like saucer to slide the mess into. Poor thing. I should have also encouraged him to find a Haz-Mat suit. Needless to say, we left a very good tip when we were done.

Our younglings have also been known to choke mid-drink and spew milk all over the nearby walls, booths and people (aka The Splash Zone), leave a scrumptious potpourri of half-chewed chicken nuggets, fries, and napkins on the floor, and scribble all over pristine white walls with generously given crayons (ironically delivered to distract the children and keep them from getting into trouble J).

Yes, regardless of where we have it, dinner is an adventure. (We say “adventure” because Horror Story seems too Halloween-y and it’s not even October yet.) But we love our little gourmands and I guess we’ll just keep feeding them, in hopes that science soon figures out how to get those darn dinner fairies to adapt to other surroundings. Perhaps they could breed them with a hardier species, like some kind of dishes-cleaning robot.